Waiting For the Rest of My Life
by Rose Rasmussen
Summary: Implied Johnlock, Suicide, pure angst. Inspired by a post made by coeykuhn. Post-Richenbatch
1. Chapter 1

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE

Inspired by a fan art.

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It had been a month and a half since Sherlock had jumped from 's, and John was just beginning to leave the room. had been the one to feed John over that time, making sure he didn't starve. The first few weeks had been the most painful, John had tried to keep it together and sleep in his own room, but ultimately found himself in Sherlock's, wrapping himself in the sheets and breathing in his scent. The days and nights had been occupied by two activities. Crying, and sitting in silence, as if waiting for Sherlock to come home and tell John it was all a big joke.  
John opened the door for the first time since Sherlock jumped, and looked down. A package sat on the steps, it was rather large and flat, like a box one would receive clothes in. The card taped to it had his name on it so he brought the package inside, setting it on the dinner table and going to retrieve scissors.  
he cut the twine holding the top and bottom together and pulled out the card.  
'He wanted you to have this. -MH'  
John didn't have to see the name to know who 'he' was. _Sherlock_.  
Somehow, even before he opened the box, John knew what was inside, but actually opening it, his heart stopped all the same. He reached out and ran a hand over the dark blue wool, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. He had never cried about death, and yet, here he was, tearing up over a piece of clothing. It wasn't the clothing that made him so emotional, it was what it meant. He carefully picked the precious scarf out of the box and pressed his face to it, hiding his tears within the fabric as he inhaled.  
John nearly tripped over himself getting up, clutching the wool to his chest as he stumbled towards the bedroom. He spent the rest of the day inside Sherlock's bed, curled up around the scarf. To John, Sherlock was more than just a person. He was a life. He was adventure and puzzles and danger, and John wouldn't have had it any other way. He was wild and exiting and maddening, but he was the best thing in the army doctor's life. The violin concerts at two in the morning, the miscellaneous body parts in the freezer, staying up till all hours of the night on a case, they were the best parts or John's life. Now, he had nothing.  
No, what he had was an empty house and an empty heart, both with a gaping hole right through the middle.  
A bit after night fell, it seemed John had run out of tears. He wrapped Sherlock's scarf around a support beam and brought the detective's footstool underneath it. John gripped his phone in one hand and dialed Mycroft's number. He closed his eyes as he waited for him to pick up.  
"John?"  
"Hello." Just with that one word, John's voice cracked, sending only shards of the word across.  
"Why are you calling?"  
"I wanted you to be the last person I talk to. You're not him, but you sound alike."  
"... How are you going to do it?" John nearly laughed. Of course Mycroft would ask.  
"Hanging." John said simply. There was no need for any more.  
"How fitting, John. You choosing to 'jump' and all... he did too."  
"I suppose that was rather the point."  
"You know there are other options. You can get grief counseling, anti-depressants, there are plenty of things."  
"Will they bring him back?"  
"No. They won't."  
"Then I guess this is goodbye" John let the phone fall from his ear and to the floor below, the call still running. He tilted his head back and whispered something inaudible, something just for him to hear. John moved one foot back before bringing it forward again, kicking the stool out from underneath himself and sending him into darkness.  
~ Almost three years later ~  
Sherlock ran up the stairs to 221 Baker street and burst in the door, thankful it was unlocked. He gripped his key with shaking hands and inserted it in the lock upstairs, pushing the door open and taking in what he saw.  
Everything was how it had been when he left, though now it was covered in a thick layer of dust. He frowned and walked through the kitchen, calling John's name. When he wasn't in the dining room, his own room, or either of the bathrooms, Sherlock looked in his own bedroom. the sheets were ruffled, like someone had been sleeping in them, but long ago, since there was the same cover of dust on those. His stool was missing, though he supposed it could have gotten broken.  
He took out his own phone and dialed John's number. It went straight to voicemail. He tried Mycroft's phone.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Mycroft, I wouldn't call you if it weren't important. Where's John?" Sherlock hated having to resort to his brother, but it was the only other person who would know where John had gone. He obviously hadn't been to the flat in at least two years. "He's not at the flat, and I don't think he would have moved out. All his things are still here, but there's dust everywhere-"  
"Sherlock.. I wanted to tell you, I really did."  
"Tell me what?" Sherlock demanded.  
"John, he... he died. I'm so sorry Sherlock."  
Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment. "No." that can't be possible, I did this so he would be safe, how could he be dead? "No. He can't."  
Mycroft sighed into the phone. "He did. Sherlock, you were gone for three years. He thought you were dead."  
"What does that have to do with any-" Sherlock stopped, sudden realisation dawning on him. "thing..."  
"I'm so sorry Sherlock,"  
"Was the funeral-"  
"Beautiful, Sherlock."  
"Good, John deserves no less." Sherlock sat down on his bed, already regretting his next question before he even asked it. "How?"  
"He hung himself..." Sherlock could tell Mycroft was leaving something out.  
"Details?" he asked.  
"Sherlock, I really don't think you want to know-"  
"Tell me." Sherlock ordered.  
"It was in your room. He called me and told me he was going to do it-"  
"Why didn't you stop him!?"  
"Sherlock, let me finish. He used _your_ scarf, in _your_ room, on _your_ footstool. He told me it's because he couldn't bring _you_ back."  
"Are you saying it's _MY_ fault!?" Sherlock shouted into the phone.  
"It is your fault!"  
Both ends went silent. Sherlock sat for a few seconds before Mycroft spoke again.  
"I'm sorry. That was too far."  
"..Yeah.." Sherlock whispered, his voice wispy in the effort to flight back a crushing sense of guilt. He hung up and threw his phone to the floor in anger, breaking it into three pieces. He covered his face with his hands and slumped over.  
In the place he and John had once shared a home, in the same room that wonderful doctor had taken his own life, on a bed covered in three years worth of dust, Sherlock cried.  
Two months later, on the anniversary of John's death, Sherlock drowned himself in the bathtub on the second floor of 221B baker street. He didn't call or leave a note, since he had do one he would leave a note _for_. He was clutching that blue scarf to his chest when he died, thinking of John and praying that maybe they would end up in the same place, and not worlds away.  
People, so full of sentiment.

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I will probably add a little epilogue of how John and Sherlock's suicides effected the rest of the world, but I want to know who wants it. If you liked the angst, please review, or just PM me and say 'Hi', either is fine ^.^


	2. Epilogue

**Epilogue Because I can.**

**Warning: Suicidal thoughts, references to suicide.**

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**********************John's death effected Mycroft probably less than it should have. At least on the outside. He put on a flat face and dealt with work as usual, pretending nothing had happened. In hindsight, he knew he should have called an ambulance the moment he heard John speak, but some bleak, dark corner of his mind wanted John to be at peace. What a funny notion, peace. There was always something going on, always something happening. There was no such thing as peace. The only person who knew about the call was DI Lestrade, but that was only because it was considered evidence. Evidence of what, Mycroft wasn't certain, but he knew it must've been important. The scarf was confiscated, again, no reason other than 'evidence' and so was the footstool.  
At night, Mycroft would think he could still hear John gasping, the sound of the footstool being knocked over and the strain on the fabric as it choked the army doctor and he in return struggled. Mycroft hadn't seen it, thank god, but blast his mind to hell, he knew what it looked like. John had been struggling, Mycroft could tell that much, and at some point, he had even gasped out the word 'Sherlock' somehow. No one knew about the dreams, Mycroft didn't think them to be important, and he pretended, or rather convinced himself, that they didn't exist.**

**Missus Hudson had been heartbroken. She couldn't bear to lose both of her boys, but somehow managed not to give herself a stroke. She had never been up to 221B since John died -she refused to call it suicide- and never put the flat up for rent, instead having invested a bit of work in 221C and renting that one out to a nice young woman named Janette. Jan wasn't Sherlock or John, but she was nice enough, understanding Missus Hudson's need to help. The older woman knew that Janette wasn't well off, but she always paid a bit extra every month, bless her soul. 221 baker St. was a lonely place without all the bustling of her consulting detective, which she had grown dependent on in the near fourteen years Sherlock had lived there, since he was just a young thing.**

**Mycroft was in France when he learned of Sherlock's return, and at home when he was informed of his suicide. He couldn't help but feel betrayed when Sherlock didn't say goodbye. He didn't even say hello. He refused to talk to Mycroft in the two months he was back at baker street, which was fairly normal, except now Mycroft had no one to convince Sherlock to speak with him. John was dead, Missus Hudson hated Mycroft too, it was as if both Sherlock and Missus Hudson were blaming him for John's suicide.**

**When Sherlock decided to follow John, he was in his old room, looking at the scarf Mycroft had given him ages ago, and wondering what would have happened if he had never jumped from Saint Bart's. John would still be dead, so would Lestrade and Missus Hudson, and Mycroft. As much as he hated it, he still cared for his older brother, even if it was partly his fault that John died. The world was just the same as before John had first met Sherlock, but**  
**it wasn't for Sherlock. John was like cocaine to him. He was exilerating and perfect, he was the only one who admired his talent rather than loathe it. Sherlock had once told him that he was like a conducter of light****, but he was wrong. He was light itself. He enhanced everything, gave Sherlock someone to impress, someone to care for and protect, even if he couldn't protect himself at times. Sherlock had failed. He had let the most important thing in his life disappear, and it was his fault. All of it.**

**There was no such thing as closure. It just didn't exist, as Mycroft was starting to learn. His mother had always said that Sherlock would end up killing himself, though she had been expecting something much different. It was tragic really, the most brilliant mind in London choosing to take his own life, and truly a loss to many, but none as much as Mycroft. He cried over Sherlock. He hadn't even cried over their father. Sherlock had left Mycroft instructions for after his death. He wanted to be buried next to John, against his original wishes of cremation. It seemed Mycroft's brother had been more affected by the ex army doctor than he had first thought. Then again, his brother had killed himself (twice) for John. It was like the world had spin on its head.**

**Sherlock's name was never cleared, John was always loyal until the end, Missus Hudson hadn't even known about Sherlock's second suicide, and Mycroft never got to say goodbye.**

**It seemed Jim's plan had gone even better than he had expected.**

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**Okay, Sorry for writing out 'Saint Bart's' and 'Missus Hudson' there is an error on my computer that won't let me type abbreviations.**


End file.
